


Souls That Cry For Water

by GGMoonyCrisco



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, Background Travis Miles, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Character Study, Gen, Male Friendship, Men Healthily Discussing Emotions Porn, Minuteman Danse, Panic Attacks, Post-Blind Betrayal, We've All Got PTSD Down Here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GGMoonyCrisco/pseuds/GGMoonyCrisco
Summary: He still felt the need to prove himself, felt he had a long way to go to be worthy of calling himself even an honorary Minuteman.He’d expressed as much to Garvey as they headed east. But Garvey greeted that with somewhat amused confusion.“We don’t really do the ‘honorary’ thing. You’re already one of us, Danse.”Preston Garvey and newly-minted Minuteman Danse have a lot more in common than either of them realized.
Relationships: Paladin Danse & Preston Garvey
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26
Collections: Genuary 2021





	Souls That Cry For Water

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in continuity with my other Fallout 4 fic, All Along The Watchtower, and takes place about a month afterward. You don't need to have read that fic for this one to make sense. But hey, you should, especially if you like Danse. It's got Nick in it too! I happen to think it's pretty nifty. 
> 
> Preston and Danse are both great, and they're excellent foils for one another. I'm always thinking about a wonderful, succinct take I saw someone make on Tumblr: they're both idealists who became soldiers because they wanted to be the good guys. Preston wanted to be the good guy who saves everyone. Danse wanted to be the good guy who beats the bad guys. 
> 
> Anyway, you're here for manpain, and I am here to deliver.

“Good morning, Commonwealth. Well I- it’s actually night but when I say morning, I mean… technically it’s 2 AM, so that’s-- morning, since it’s after midnight… 

“Anyway. Anyway. I know I usually have the-- have the recordings automated overnight, but I was lying there in bed, thinking about… Well, I started thinking about a scenario. About what would happen if I heard a knock on the door, and I opened the door, and then the person standing there was… was me. But a synth-me. And well, I think talking to someone-- or hearing my own voice, at least, might help me calm down? Maybe? Why do I think things like that… why do I do this to myself? I swear to God--” 

“So much for music. He’s gonna be doing this for a while.” The panicky DJ’s voice faded out and vanished as Lieutenant Preston Garvey twisted the radio knob and clicked it off. “You mind?”

“Not at all,” said Danse. “I’ve always been deeply curious how that young man ended up with a career in radio.” 

Garvey chuckled under his breath. “One of the greatest mysteries in the Commonwealth, right there.”

Danse allowed himself a brief smirk, then turned his attention back to the landscape around them. The night was cool and clear. Darkness shrouded the world, pinned back by the stars in the sky and the distant lights of landmarks. The soft lanterns below. Kingsport Lighthouse, to the north. The airport, far to the south. 

“Seen anything yet?” 

“Negative.” 

“Me neither. So far so good, I guess.” Garvey stood up, stretching his shoulders. “You want another cup of coffee?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Danse and Garvey were perched up high on a watchtower, sitting on small benches constructed against the railings. Danse’s laser rifle was by his side and Garvey’s musket by his, ready at a minute’s notice. Thus far, there hadn’t been the slightest sign of trouble out beyond the cluster of buildings, not even the rustle of a radstag or other wildlife. It was quiet and dull, but Danse had kept the night watch many times in his life. Dull was ideal.

This was also a fairly comfortable setup, a dozen times better than some of the miserable occasions Danse had been ordered to stay awake all night. The settlers had provided a portable woodburning stove for warmth, blankets, a kettle of coffee, and a basket of fresh hand pies. Subtract the urgency and the stakes of the situation, and it was downright luxurious. 

The call came from the small settlement in Salem early yesterday. Two of the locals caught a patrol of Institute synths scouting the area. A few gunshots scared them off, but it wasn’t the first time the old models had been spotted recently. Synths didn’t tend to lurk or linger somewhere unless they planned to raid for parts, or provisions, or in the worst possible scenario, people. 

General Carter was off on other business, so Garvey wasted no time preparing to answer the call himself. Before he set out, he stopped by the Red Rocket station outside Sanctuary to ask if Danse would like to join him.

Danse had been helping the Minutemen for around a month now. It started with a few training exercises, lessons on combat and marksmanship for small groups of green recruits. He was by Nora’s side as she attended to other requests-- a pack of ferals too close to Sunshine Tidings’ water source, a woman from Oberland Station kidnapped by raiders. But Nora was his Nora, and he’d have helped her whether or not it was Minutemen business. He still felt the need to prove himself, felt he had a long way to go to be worthy of calling himself even an honorary Minuteman. 

He’d expressed as much to Garvey as they headed east. But Garvey greeted that with somewhat amused confusion. 

“We don’t really do the ‘honorary’ thing,” he’d said. “You’re already one of us, Danse.”

At least Danse thought his unease was understandable. The Brotherhood of Steel was a heavily regimented organization with a literal litany of traditions that dated back to the Great War. Strict rules, a strict hierarchy, and strict guidelines on who and how one could be a member, how every rank was to be earned and respected. For over a decade Danse thrived within their rigid structure and was a shining example of success, until the one fateful day he wasn’t. 

Meanwhile, the Minutemen were at their core a loose community service pact, a makeshift homeowner’s association with guns. A volunteer militia overseen by those willing to do it full-time, ranks and a hierarchy mostly dictated by show of hands. To join, you pitched in. To be respected, you were decent at it. 

That sounded patronizing, but he honestly didn’t mean it to be. This holistic sort of organization might take some getting used to, but it felt good to raise his gun for a cause again, a good cause, an honest cause. Satisfying, to see smiles, gratitude, and immediate results for their efforts. Relieving, not to have to mind his every manner, every move, every word. (Though he did anyway. Danse was Danse, with or without the Brotherhood.) 

In the past month, he’d also learned well that the people of the Minutemen were more than decent at it, and quite worthy of respect. Nora, of course, thrived in the role of General. But there were many other men and women stepping up, risking their lives for the greater good. There was no better example than Lieutenant Preston Garvey.

Danse warmed to Garvey far more easily than some of Nora’s other associates. He was a good man, a good leader and an excellent soldier. All business, all the time, buttoned-up and official, pleasant and polite in all interactions. A little stiff and a little singleminded, but Danse knew well the weight of duty. The familiar mask of a man presenting calm and competence because it’s his responsibility to do so. 

Garvey wore the mask well. He was calm as he relayed news from the Castle, announcing urgent missions that demanded their attention. Calm as he spoke to the new recruits, settled arguments between them, dressed one down for recklessness and told him to shape up or leave. Calm as he organized the search parties for Nora back when she’d been kidnapped. Calm as he responded to the fact that Danse was a synth, to where Danse wasn’t sure whether it was news to him or not. 

The only time he’d ever seen Garvey lose his cool, actually, had been that afternoon. The atmosphere was heavy as they arrived at the settlement, a physically draining miasma of fear and paranoia lingering throughout. The Minutemen’s presence only provided slight relief, and tensions were running high. A local named Sandy had been explaining the situation to Danse and Garvey when a violent argument erupted in the common.

“Why don’t you quit pretending? You’re not fooling me anymore, you freak!” 

“Holy shit, Roman, what are you doing?”

A small group of settlers gathered around two men. One was red-faced with fury, teeth grit, grip shaking as he brandished a pistol. The other, young and terrified, had his hands up. 

“You must think we’re all stupid, don’t you?” Roman shouted. “Everything was fine until you showed up!” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Haven’t had any trouble look this direction in ages. But the minute you get here, the goddamn  _ Institute  _ starts sniffing around.” Roman sneered. “You brought them here, didn’t you? You’re a spy for them, aren’t you, you goddamn synth?” 

“Oh my God. Are you serious? I’m not a synth!” 

“You aren’t fooling me! You’re going to call ‘em in and kill us all!” 

“Roman, are you nuts?” A woman tugged on his shoulder. “Put the gun away!” 

“How do we know he’s telling the truth? What if he is--” 

“Johnny, he’s wrong, isn’t he?”

“Of course he’s wrong. Come on!” Johnny pleaded. “I’m not a damn synth!” 

“Prove it.”

“How?” 

“Prove it or I’ll-” 

“Hey!” Garvey instantly stepped in the middle of the feud, inserting himself between Roman and Johnny. “What the hell is this? Put that gun away!” 

“Who are you?”

“Commonwealth Minutemen. Put it away, sir.” 

“He’s with them! He’s the whole reason you’re--” 

“Guns away. All of you. Right now.” Garvey’s cool voice was sharp and commanding, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what the situation is. We don’t throw around accusations and threaten our neighbors.”

Between Garvey’s admonitions and the pleading of other settlers, Roman was convinced to holster his weapon. He still looked angry as Garvey pulled him aside to talk. “I know you’re scared. But the Minutemen are here to protect you. All of you. You stay calm and civil and let us deal with any synths that come around. Understand?” 

Even a badly agitated man couldn’t withstand Garvey at his most stern, and he had Roman cowed and apologetic within a few minutes. Meanwhile, Johnny had been led off to the side by Sandy. She patted his shoulder and seemed to be consoling him, but he looked shaken, disturbed by the conflict. Perhaps he really wasn’t a synth. Or perhaps he was. One couldn’t assume the nature or intentions of a person by merely looking at them. 

Danse had learned that lesson firsthand, in the most painful manner possible. 

Garvey handled the situation well. Danse could not say the same of himself. In theory, he’d been ready to step in if anyone had the foolish idea to get aggressive. But in hindsight, he was so bewildered by the nature of the argument that he was unacceptably distracted. His instincts, once honed and decisive, now tugged him between suspicion and grace, intolerance and mercy. What would he have done if he was here alone, if he’d had to deal with the situation alone?

A soldier lived and died by his instincts and judgement, and now Danse’s were clouded. He hated that uncertainty, hated how it became increasingly common since his ejection from the Brotherhood. Now it had the gall to plague him while he was supposed to be focused on the watch. 

Danse was well aware he was a chronic overthinker, and given the opportunity he would sit here all night and stew, sinking deeper and deeper into what-ifs and imagined scenarios. How pathetic would it be if he was too busy second-guessing his past actions to respond in the present moment, when Garvey really needed him? 

Perhaps talking about it would prevent that.

“Do you mind if I compliment you on something, Garvey?” 

“Oof. Maybe.” Garvey crouched over the little wood stove, pouring coffee from the kettle into two ceramic mugs. “Like what?” 

“Your handling of the situation earlier. The argument between those settlers.” 

“Oh.” He smiled a bit. “It was no trouble. I’m just glad nobody got hurt.” 

“Your diplomacy and tact went a long way to ensuring no one did,” said Danse. 

“People get a little crazy when they’re scared, that’s all. I don’t blame them for being nervous.”

“Well, you certainly have a knack for reassurance.”

“Thanks.” It sounded nearly automatic. “I’m glad you had my back.”

“Had your back?” Danse scoffed softly. “I was no help at all. I stood there dumbstruck while you put yourself directly in the line of fire.” 

“It wasn’t that big a deal.” Garvey shook his head, digging through the small basket of supplies provided by the settlers. “I knew if things popped off, you’d step in.” 

“At the very least I should have attempted to keep the others calm. Separated the bystanders from the direct conflict.”

“Honestly? I’m pretty sure you did.”

“How?” 

“You’re pretty intimidating, all suited up in your armor. Pretty sure anybody would think twice about getting rowdy with you looming off to the side.”

He smirked. He’d been trying hard to fit in with the Minutemen, but Danse was still Danse and he’d be loath to march into a mission without power armor. His X-01 suit was parked down at the base of the watchtower, fusion core removed for security. “That sounds less like helping and more like an unintended boon of my presence.”

“Hey, whatever works.” Garvey pulled two linen-wrapped mason jars out of the basket of supplies. One contained a pale-colored liquid, and the other a thick dark substance. “Let’s see. We got Brahmin milk and… ‘Granny Alcott’s Nuka-Cola Syrup,’ for sweetener.” 

“I’ll take mine plain, thank you.” Danse was used to black coffee on the rare occasions he had it, either for the chemical stimulation or the pleasure of a hot drink. 

Garvey doctored his own mug up with a splash of milk, then seemed to debate before pouring in an experimental drizzle of syrup. He stirred it up with a spoon, then carefully handed Danse his cup. 

“You know this stuff was made from beans?” asked Garvey, having a seat back in his spot.

“I did, yes.” 

“And it didn’t used to taste like dirt, either. Though I guess it was always supposed to be bitter.”

Danse nodded. “Nora told me that coffee shops used to provide flavored syrups and sweeteners and multiple varieties of milk. Hundreds of different ways to avoid tasting the beverage by itself, all for the sake of imbibing caffeine.”

The Minuteman took a small sip from his mug. A few varied expressions flashed across his face, then he cleared his throat and swallowed the swig. 

“Well,” he murmured, “whatever they used, it had to taste better than brahmin milk and Nuka-Cola.” 

The pleasant peace of the night stretched on as they “enjoyed” their coffee. Garvey choked his beverage down, apparently out of a sense of obligation not to waste offered food. He turned the radio on, then swiftly off again when the sounds of the disc jockey sobbing became apparent.

Danse was perfectly content in the silence. He snatched one of the hand pies out of the basket to ward off some hunger pangs. Tarberry-mutfruit filling, still residually warm from the oven. One of the settlers was an excellent baker. 

Locals offering tokens of appreciation like a warm stove and refreshments still struck him as an unusual prospect. Of course Danse would never expect nor feel entitled to them, but it was a nice gesture, a pleasant little perk. All he’d ever received from civilians in the Brotherhood were wary looks. (Then again, many in the Brotherhood did not necessarily go out of their way to be friendly to civilians.)

“I meant to thank you for coming out here with me,” said Garvey out of nowhere. “Not the most exciting job ever, but I’m glad you’re here.” 

“It’s truly my pleasure.” Danse looked across at Garvey’s face, flickering in the dim light of the stove. “I should be thanking you for inviting me.” 

“What? For dragging you halfway across the Commonwealth for stakeout duty?”

“I’m honored you consider me capable. That you chose me to represent the Minutemen at your side.”

“Sure, Danse.” Garvey’s eyes widened a bit, and he frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Given my history, I could understand some hesitation to trust me.” 

“Because of the Brotherhood? I don’t see the point in holding that against you. Anybody would be lucky to have you on their side.”

“There’s also--” Danse hesitated. “The matter of my identity.” 

“Oh.” Garvey did a little hesitating of his own. “Well, that’s not your fault. I’m not about to start judging people for something they can’t control.” 

“You’re among those who have acknowledged the truth of my nature with nothing but acceptance and respect.” Danse shook his head. “In fact you’ve always been courteous to me, even when I was curt and unfriendly in return. The fact that you haven’t treated me any differently after learning that I’m a synth is… honestly, I can’t express how much it means to me.” 

“Of course,” said Garvey. “I don’t think it should matter what you are. It’s what you do, what kind of person you are that makes all the difference.” 

“In that case, your kindness is even more exceptional.” Danse stared down at his hands. “I’m aware that my prior beliefs and attitudes were intolerant and hateful.” 

“But look at you now.” Garvey gestured at him. “You’re out here fighting for the people. Putting in your all to help others. You’re doing your best to do better, and I think it’d be pretty lousy of me to turn you away because I’m holding your past against you.” 

He took a deep breath and leaned forward on his bench. “I don’t get to pick and choose who gets to be treated fairly. Nobody needs to be ‘worthy’ of it. Doesn’t matter who they are, or what they are, or where they come from. The Minutemen help people who need help, and that’s all there is to it. That’s all there should be to it. At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“That’s a gracious way of looking at things,” said Danse. “One that I’m honestly still struggling with.”

“Well, I can’t really blame you for struggling.” Garvey frowned. “You’ve been through hell. I’m sure it’s been a nightmare, but I can really only imagine.” 

Yes. It had been a nightmare, one it felt like he’d only recently begun to awaken from. Danse almost replied that he wouldn’t wish it on his greatest enemy, but he couldn’t say for certain that was true. The Institute scientists  _ ought  _ to know what it was like. How it felt to be a feeling, thinking, free-minded being only to be told you were a machine, a tool, a manufactured object no different than a wrench in their regard. Perhaps the perspective would open their eyes to the suffering they thoughtlessly inflicted. 

It had certainly worked on Danse. 

“In any case,” he said softly, “I’m grateful that you’ve given me this opportunity. I’m pleased to have somewhere to apply my skills, and I truly hope the Minutemen will find me a useful asset.” 

“I think we can do a little better than ‘asset,’” said Garvey, lightly teasing. “I’d say you’ve more than earned ‘Sergeant’ by now.” 

“Sergeant?” Danse bristled slightly. “No, I couldn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t deserve it.” 

“You’ve been training the hell out of the newbies.” 

“But I’ve barely served. I don’t deserve a promotion over others with more experience.” 

“‘Promotion’ is a pretty formal phrase for the Minutemen.” Garvey chuckled. “Hell, you’ve got years of experience and real military training under your belt. That pretty much makes you one of the most capable people we’ve ever had.”

Danse’s voice caught in his throat once or twice before he finally managed. “Thank you, Garvey. That means a lot coming from you.” 

“Don’t take my word for it,” Garvey insisted. “The General can’t say enough good things about you.” 

“I do respect her opinion, of course, but you must admit she’s a little biased.” Danse smiled. “You’re a widely-respected figure throughout the Commonwealth, a fine soldier, and an honored representative for the Minutemen. Your judgement means a great deal to me.” 

“Thanks.” Once again, Garvey said it quickly, almost reflexively. It came off more like a deflection than a real acceptance. 

The night stretched on, quiet as ever. Garvey took only milk in his second cup of coffee. Danse fed another log into the stove, and they used it to heat up a couple more of the hand pies.

They talked quietly as they kept the watch. 

“I grew up in a place like this,” said Garvey. “Down south. Less a settlement than three or four little homesteads overlapping in the middle. We took turns on watch like this, keeping an eye out for each other overnight. I used to beg and plead with my parents to let me stay up, when it was one of their turns.” 

“I’d think a child would find this sort of thing either frightening or dull.” 

“Not me.” Garvey grinned. “It was the closest thing I had to being a Minuteman when I was too young to join up yet.” 

Danse imagined a small Preston Garvey wearing an oversized hat and duster, his laser musket far too big for a child to carry. “A long-term goal of yours?” 

“Absolutely. The Minutemen were my heroes, all my life.” 

Back then, Garvey went on, the Minutemen were a far more organized force than the recovering shambles they were now. There were bases and groups all throughout the Commonwealth, enough boots on the ground to easily canvas most of the region. “At a minute’s notice” was less of a catchphrase and more of a realistic estimate. With no provisional government, no other forces of comparable size and dedication, it was fair to say that the Commonwealth would be in even more dire straits without them. Even Diamond City would have been wiped off the map by mutants a century ago if it wasn’t for Minutemen intervention. 

For many small settlements like the one Garvey grew up in, there was no other line of defense, no other hope of repelling raiders or mutants or whatever else the wasteland threw their way. They simply didn’t have the numbers, the weapons, the training to pull off what the Minutemen could, what the Minutemen did when they came to the rescue. More than once, Garvey watched them save the lives of his parents and neighbors. More than once, he had vowed that someday, he would grow up and join them. 

Garvey was far more animated than usual, enthusiasm in his voice and a youthful spark in his eyes as he relayed stories of battles that had come close to his childhood home, encounters with the soldiers who’d passed through and encouraged him. They were clearly pleasant memories for him, and he was easily carried away in sharing them. 

At last, he took a long gulp of his coffee that mostly looked like he wanted to get rid of it. “Listen to me, talking your ear off about myself. I could probably go on ‘til dawn about this.”

“It’s all right,” said Danse. “I enjoy hearing your stories.” 

“Well, now I want to hear some of yours. You’re from the Capital, right?” 

“More or less.” 

“What was growing up there like?” 

A sharp pang tightened in his chest. For about a minute, the chirping of distant cave crickets was the only sound. “I don’t know,” Danse finally said. “I was never a child.” 

“Oh, that’s right.” Garvey frowned and looked away. “Sorry.” 

“It’s all right. The situation is… complicated.” Danse glanced down at his mug. “I do remember growing up. But my memories aren’t real.” 

Garvey was quiet for a few seconds more. “They are to you, if you want to talk about it.” 

He found, strangely, that he did. So he told Garvey his recollections of childhood, as dire and depressing as they were. Being small and alone, always struggling, always hungry, always a little afraid. Afraid of monsters in the wasteland, both human and not. Afraid he would get hurt or trapped as he crawled through the ruins. Afraid he’d freeze, or starve, or not come up with enough scrap to sell to survive. 

He did survive, somehow, long enough to buy his way into Rivet City. It was a different kind of survival there, with all new things to be afraid of. Afraid he’d get robbed, or breathe in enough rust to get the red lung. Afraid his business would fail, that he’d lose what little livelihood he had. Afraid he’d spend the rest of his life here, a no-account wastelander who never made a difference, never made a mark, never amounted to anything more than a junk merchant. 

Then the Brotherhood of Steel came through. They were already famed for their deeds, fragging super mutants, protecting the radio station, the only group large and powerful enough to do grand, beneficial things at all for the people of the Capital Wasteland. They were strong, powerful, organized, and they showed him a path forward. A path where he didn’t have to be afraid anymore. 

“Whatever the common opinion of them is, whatever they’ve done and whatever enemies they’ve made… back then, it felt like a miracle. The Brotherhood offered a nobody like me something better than merely surviving, merely existing. A chance to become part of something more, something that could provide hope for a better future. Hope for all of humanity.” 

Garvey didn’t comment on the Brotherhood as an organization, or offer any opinions of his own. He only sat, listening intently, nodding to acknowledge he was hearing him. 

“Even after all that’s happened, I can’t pretend it wasn’t important to me. That I didn’t live my life for the cause for so many years, and that I know what to do without it. I can’t just forget it all and move on.” Danse looked away. “It feels like…” 

“Like losing a piece of yourself,” said Garvey. “Having it torn right out of you.” 

“Yes. Exactly.” 

“I get it,” said Garvey. “I really do.” 

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rail behind him. “I know how it is to feel betrayed by something you gave your heart and soul to fight for. To lose faith in something you believed in.” 

“Are you referring to the Minuteman?” asked Danse.

“Yeah.” Garvey folded his arms. “For a while there, there wasn’t much worth believing in.” 

Because as he explained, the near-collapse of the Minutemen had nothing to do with a war of attrition against the Institute, or increased raider and mutant activity, or one battle that went poorly. It had taken place over a number of years, a splintering caused by infighting. Leaders forming subfactions, loyalty to themselves ahead of the common good. Greed and ego and vaingloriousness leading to underhanded acts of betrayal. 

“I thought we were better than that. I thought we all had the same goals in mind. Of course people were going to argue and clash, but I thought protecting the Commonwealth was more important than that. And I thought everybody else agreed with me.” 

Garvey shook his head. “I’m sure it sounds naive. Like a dumb kid putting ordinary people on a pedestal. And in hindsight, I wish I hadn’t been so starry-eyed for so long. Maybe I could have seen the problems coming. Maybe I could have spoken up before it all went to hell around us. But when it all came crashing down, when it was only nine of us there standing in Quincy, I…”

“Lost a piece of yourself,” Danse said softly. “Had it torn right out of you.” 

They sat in an acknowledging silence for a long time. 

Danse knew about the Quincy Massacre. The scorn and disgust at the incident had been plainly felt, even isolated from the average civilian as they were in Recon Squad Gladius. At the time, Danse dismissed it (snobbishly, he could admit) as a failure of organization, the inevitable implosion of a ramshackle militia run by amateurs. At the time, he wholeheartedly believed that the Brotherhood would never stoop to such lows. That he’d never end up scorned by an organization he had faith in, had pledged his heart and soul to. . 

He had yet to truly grasp the extent of his anger with the Brotherhood, anger that he’d only recently allowed himself to acknowledge. He may never be able to properly articulate it. But he understood now that he’d been naive, too. Naive to think that an organization made up of fallible, imperfect people could be anything but fallible and imperfect in turn.

It was foolish to place too much faith in  _ any  _ organization, to make rash proclamations that one was better or more righteous than the other. 

But fallible and imperfect as they were, the Minutemen hadn’t stripped him of his rank and dignity. They hadn’t ordered him dead. They hadn’t rejected him for something beyond his control. They may have been clumsy and ramshackle and disorganized, but they accepted Danse. He was a wounded, lost, bigoted synth, and they trusted him.  _ Garvey  _ trusted him, personally recruited him to fight at his side, because he knew he was capable, whoever and whatever else he was. That was enough for the Minutemen. For them, that was all he needed to be.

And now it was clear to him that he owed calm, competent Lieutenant Preston Garvey even more than he thought. Without him, without his faith, and without the blood, sweat, and tears he’d poured into the cause, the Minutemen likely wouldn’t even exist anymore. They wouldn’t be here to give him a chance, to give the whole Commonwealth a chance at something better than survival. 

“It doesn’t excuse or make up for what happened in the past,” said Danse carefully. “But the Minutemen are growing and becoming strong again.”

Garvey closed his eyes. “It really feels like that, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s not just a feeling. It’s the truth,” said Danse. “Look at the way people look at us-- the way they look at you. That respect and trust is something that the Minutemen have earned back, thanks to you.” 

Once more, Garvey was quick to deflect. “It has nothing to do with me. Everybody’s been working together to get it all done. And General Carter’s the one we have to thank for all of this.” 

“General Carter wasn’t the one those people were listening to earlier today.” Danse smiled slightly. “And I know she wouldn’t accept any credit for everything you’ve accomplished.” 

“Then neither will I.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t deserve it.” 

“Nonsense. If I can’t deny the rank of sergeant, then you can’t deny you’ve been instrumental in rebuilding the Minutemen.” 

“They wouldn’t have needed rebuilding. They’d never have gotten to this point if I…” For a moment, a very brief moment, something familiar flickered across Garvey’s ever-sober expression. A wrinkle of his brow, a twitch of his lip. Pain, deep and harsh, showing itself very briefly before being hurriedly swallowed away. 

Danse opened his mouth, but had no idea what to say. He lost the chance to think about it when Garvey suddenly froze, staring at something in the distance. 

He turned around as Garvey stood up and moved to look over the watchtower railing. They watched the landscape closely. There in the darkness came a row of lights. Bouncing yellow lights, piercing through the underbrush, slowly spreading out to circle the sleeping houses.

Garvey snagged the rope attached to the alarm bell and rattled it hard, echoing the sound across the settlement. There were shouts, thumps, footsteps, voices from within the buildings. Then the first gunshot rang out, and the battle erupted. 

The settlers had all been instructed to keep their weapons primed and ready by the door, and it seemed they’d all taken the advice to heart. By the time Danse and Garvey got down from the watchtower, the locals were already scattered throughout the settlement, taking cover around corners, firing in bursts at the group of synths closing in. 

Blue light rained from the attacking synths’ pistols, countered by red as the Minutemen stepped in. The heavy droning blast of Garvey’s laser musket rumbled like thunder in the dark. Danse’s power-armored footsteps thudded as he pushed out front, peppering the opposition with a heavy volley of fire. 

Off to the right, a man screamed. Yellow lights dragged a line of motion as one of the synths overtook a human-shaped shadow. Garvey shouted and rushed in that direction. 

Meanwhile, Danse was drawn to the left, where a group of three settlers was struggling with the synths’ flank. He stepped out front to intervene, letting the laserfire bounce off his power armor as he methodically picked off the synths one by one. 

It was loud. It was chaotic. It was over nearly as quickly as it began. Danse had just sunk another fusion cell into his rifle when a settler’s gunshot from the side took out the last standing synth. It sparked and fell down limp in the grass. 

There were a few seconds of heavy silence, then the night was pierced by a unison cheer. 

The settlers regrouped in the square. Crying, hugging, high-fiving, they were euphoric in victory, celebrating their success. Danse scanned the crowd and was relieved to see Johnny, looking frazzled, shaking so much he could barely keep a grip on the pistol in his hand. Roman approached. The men stared at each other a moment, then Roman offered him a handshake. 

“Thank you!” Sandy gushed, thumping the chest of Danse’s armor in a friendly manner. “Thank you so much! You Minutemen really saved our hides!” 

“You’re welcome, ma’am. We’re happy to be of service.” Then he went looking for Garvey. 

He found him behind one of the far houses, near where he’d rushed to rescue the fallen settler. At first Danse feared he was injured, ducked down onto his knees, musket slung across his lap and his arms tight around himself. But one look at his hollow face, his shaking shoulders, and his heaving chest told him well enough what the issue was. The settler stood beside him, unharmed, clearly frightened and unsure what to do. 

Danse gestured for the settler to leave. He nodded and hurried to the square to join the others. 

Garvey’s eyes darted up to meet Danse’s, then quickly looked away. He forced a few deep breaths and let his head hang. “Everyone’s…?” 

“Safe,” said Danse calmly. “All hostiles down. No casualties.” 

“Good.” Garvey exhaled. “Thank God. I…”

Danse knelt in front of him, using the bulk of his armor to shield him from view. He reached out and very carefully, very gently, placed a hand at his back. 

It was several minutes before Garvey composed himself enough to speak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to have to see me like this. Like I can’t handle...” 

“It’s all right.” 

“It’s so damn stupid.” 

“It’s not.” 

“Sometimes, I just…” 

“I know. So do I.” 

Lieutenant Preston Garvey wore a mask of calm and competence, the better to carry the burden of responsibility. It could conceal a great many things, but it couldn’t cover up a frightened, wounded, bone-tired man struggling beneath. 

Danse knew that firsthand, too. 


End file.
